


Goddess

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Smut, Tall!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:44:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: Steve Rogers is just a man, and you cower to no man.





	Goddess

You are a goddess.

Steve wishes he is joking when he says that, but unfortunately, it’s the truth. 

He watches you stand in the corner of the meeting room as Tony outlines the plan for the next assignment—a dangerous mission, something necessarily quiet and subtle. Tony plans on sending Natasha but it’s a bit tricky because she’s now become a public figure and he’s unsure that a wig and a prosthetic nose will be enough to camouflage her.

And the mark is _dangerous_.

But they need her to blend in, rub elbows, seduce.

A tiny lift of your mouth is all it takes to send the blood rushing to his head. Steve suppresses a scowl and fixes his gaze onto Tony.

“Odinson?” You suck on your teeth, pick at your nailbeds like you’d rather be somewhere else. “What do you think?”

Thor grins a wide and lethal slope of his mouth—your closest friend, sharing your immortality and your hubris. The two of you together decimate forests and ruin skyscrapers as lightning and energy-- destruction in its purest form.

“You know what I think.” Thor replies, all bravado and swagger as he crosses his arms and kicks his legs up on the table. “But, sister, seems like it’s not our call.”

“How do the mortals say it?” You twirl a strand of hair around your pointer finger, eyes meeting Steve’s in the most _annoying_ way, “Boring. Capital B.” Then, you push your hips from the wall and turn. Even without your cape, it’s a dramatic exit as you yank the door open and stomp from his view.

\--

You are a bitch.

He finds you later overlooking the compound on a hill, twirling your daggers. There are trails of blackened greenery and complex arabesque patterns next to your feet where you have burned the earth. _Boredom_. There are patches all around the compound like this—alien sigils, indecipherable artwork, slithering veins upon the ground. Beautiful dead grass. _Boredom_.

One blade is tucked back into its hilt while the other is tossed so high into the air it vanishes completely from view, whipping through the atmosphere with a high-pitched shriek.

“Hey.” Steve barks, striding forward. “That was uncalled for.” His jaw is set firmly, muscles clenching as he approaches. You hold your hand out to him as if you might shake and apologize until the handle of your blade plops in your open palm.

The alien metal gleams menacingly as you twirl it between two fingers and clutch the handle again, making a show of facing the tip at his torso. Steve moves to knock it from your hand but you turn it back around, grip the blade with a smirk. He misses by a centimeter.

“Are we boring you, Your Highness?” He asks, moving his weight to one leg. You sheathe the weapon as he glares straight ahead into your face.

Steve Rogers is tall, yes. He stands nearly a head above most other men, something he often uses to his advantage. His commanding glare and stern tone makes them avert their gaze and cower.

But you cower to no man.

In fact, you are taller than _most_ men.

“_Captain_,” You hum, his title released from your lips like an afterthought, or a joke. “Spare me your grievances.”

“Because you’re so busy being an immortal? What’s that like, by the way? To be so powerful you have no care for the people—the humans—around you?”

You step closer, nose nearly touching his. A smile that makes his blood boil. 

“You’re not so far away from being immortal yourself. Everyone _you_ know is also dead. I thought you might understand.”

“Understand _you_?” He spits, “There isn’t much to understand, ma’am. You’re self-absorbed, thoughtless, cruel. Am I missing anything?”

Steve nearly growls when the crook of your pointer finger flicks his jaw. 

“Not at all, lover. You’ve got me just right.”

How is it that revered titles and affectionate names can be so condescending when you say it? Aren’t goddesses supposed to be merciful and tender? Beautiful and soft?

He’s never seen you merciful nor tender.

You tilt your head back, stretch your spine, and look down at him. Your eyes dance over his as you wait for his retaliation. He knows in this moment if you were to call upon your powers, splay your hand over his chest, and send those waves into his body, he could die instantaneously. But Steve Rogers is stubborn through and through, as he’s always been, and he places his foot in front of yours, the toe of his shoe against you.

He hasn’t felt this small since before Erskine and the serum; you render his strength null and void.

But he’d be damned if he let you know.

His nostrils flare. In the horizon behind him, storm clouds gather ominously and pick up a gust that sweeps through his flaxen head. “A bit much, don’t you think?” He asks as his hair lashes in the wind.

You lick your lips and taste the salt in the air. “That’s not me, darling--”

“I am _not_ your darling.”

“Do you want to be?” You ask, narrowing your eyes, “Is that why your heart beats so fast?” Your tongue exposes itself in a slow lick, tracing the edge of your top lip before catching your bottom one between your teeth.

Steve doesn’t dare look because although you may not be soft, you _are_ beautiful. Like the crackling sky in a storm, illuminated for brief and blessed moment by lightning. And you are so close to him, mouth nearly brushing against his cheek.

“Step back, Rogers.” You whisper, “Or you may incur Thor’s wrath. He’s protective, but well-intentioned. Bit familiar, if you ask me.”

He sees it now, the flashing light brightening your irises with a splendorous glow. You bite your lip again and smile at him strangely, as if you are forming some new opinion. He’d rather not know. His heart picks up its pace.

When you turn away, a blinding fracture in the air summons Thor behind you.

“Come, brother,” You say cheerily, “Let’s fly.”

\--

You are a force.

Natasha has done her part, and now the rest of the team comes in to do theirs. You laugh when bullets fly in your direction and swat them away with your hands. Even the ones that dig into you are picked out as if they were little splinters. You are agile and graceful, but you are a bruiser. The blows you land are deafening, and men’s heads burst open like ripe watermelons. Your elbow is sharp and blows right through their skulls.

When you are finished in your corner, you look over at Steve, still fending off three. With a whip of your arm too fast for anyone to see, your blade finds temporary homes slipping through the ribs of two agents. Steve takes care of the last one by thrusting his body feet-forward, kicking toward the wall where it splinters and crumbles.

“Pulling your punches, Captain?” You scold, retrieving your weapon and wiping the blood off on the bottom of your boot. He ignores the baited comment and inspects the dingy room where seven bodies lie. Four of them headless. Two cut through like slaughtered animals. One slumped against a ramshackle wall.

If he wasn’t so irritated, he might have been impressed.

\--

You are a tease.

Bucky meets you for the first time on a plain Tuesday. He pushes his hair out of his face and peers up at your easy smile as you shake his hand. He’s never met a woman taller than him, and it shocks him a little when your grip feels like it could crush every bone.

“Heard a lot about you.” You say, keeping eye contact with the new addition, “I’m very impressed.” Then you slide your hand up the long sleeve of his shirt and outline the metal plates of his right arm. “See you later, Sergeant.”

Steve doesn’t miss the way the title slips out of your mouth hotly. You stride past him, shoulder knocking into his own before you send a redolent look back to Bucky.

“I’ve got a blade I’d love to introduce you to sometime… _if_ you’re interested.”

When you’re gone from the room Bucky lets out a low whistle, “Oh, Stevie, I’m _interested._” He exhales, “What a woman.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “Not a woman-- an immortal. Can’t even say she’s a good one, Buck.”

Bucky licks his lips, “Pal, she doesn’t have to be _good_. I’m gonna climb that girl like a tree.”

\--

You are alone.

Thor tells him about it one night in a hushed murmur. Eons ago, when you were still a new entity, bloodied and escaped from your dying world to plead with Asgard for aide. Titans had come to your planet, destroyed its lush forests, drank its oceans, killed its life. You weren’t enough to stop them and before you could return, your entire planet had collapsed, caving in until it was nothing more than trembling bits of space dust and rock.

Asgard was kind to you. You were not kind to yourself.

Over the clinking of billiard balls against cue sticks, Steve peeks across the room where you stand by Sam and Bucky, and suddenly the characteristic gleam in your eye glistens like a teardrop.

\--

You are a vision.

Descending the glass stairs, your fingertips glide along its polished railing, feet padding softly down each step. Yards of seafoam chiffon drape over your body and shimmer under the lights. Gold rings adorn your fingers, but the rest of you remains unencumbered by jewels.

You step barefoot up to the bar and Natasha pours you a drink.

“No shoes?” She comments, “Bold choice.”

You laugh and look over your shoulder, “I’m already too tall for most of Midgard. Why intimidate the men even more?”

Natasha snorts and passes a martini glass full of vodka and one olive. “Men are fragile.”

Cerulean eyes meet yours over the crowd before they flicker away. You smirk. “Yes, they are.” You don’t miss the way he stares at your exposed back. Natasha doesn’t either.

And then he’s next to you, eyes downcast and leaning against the stool bar, muttering a quiet hello. You turn, still in your seat, looking up at him in a rare instance of what is the slightest hint of submission.

“I want to apologize.” Steve says, hand firmly grasped around his beer bottle. The scar running down the length of your spine tingles with his sympathy. With a shrug of your shoulder, you swallow the rest of your drink and stand to where you can meet him eye-to-eye again.

“We can forgive each other with a dance.”

He has two left feet and quivering, clammy hands. It’s a wonder how the man can be so graceful and stunning in a fight but crush your toes in a waltz. You can’t help but be endeared as the tip of his oxfords finds your bare foot for the fifth time and you yank it back with a laugh. He’s burning ruddy but you hold on tight, fingers laced.

“This is embarrassing.” Steve mumbles.

“No, no,” You assure, “Here, let’s just sway.” And then he’s pressed close, both hands hesitantly placed on your waist. “You’re allowed to hold on, Rogers. I’m not made of glass.”

He shakes his head, a smile growing on his pink mouth, “No, you’re not.”

You’re made of stardust and men’s dreams, he thinks. Molten lava and ice crystals and clapping thunder and all things cosmic that he can only imagine. His calloused palms run over the ridge of your scar briefly before he pulls it away with a quiet apology. It doesn’t bother you, really, but his solemn eyes tell you he’s been divulged of your past.

“It’s not so bad, Captain.” You say fondly, “We may both be haunted by ghosts, but some of them have lingered.” You glance at Bucky then Thor. “You and I are more similar than you’d like to admit.”

You place his hand back on your spine, guiding him further down until he’s over the small of your back. A few more steps and you let him go, walking away with a grin.

“Thanks for the dance.”

“Yeah.” Steve sighs, placing his hand in his pocket where your warm skin still tingles.

\--

You are a mystery.

A sweet young girl finds you at the end of the night. The top of her head barely reaches your shoulder, so you sit down to look at her while she blushes furiously, chattering with compliments and self-deprecating stutters of why she’s not good enough to even be talking to you.

You run your knuckles over her arm and call her beautiful, tip her chin upwards, part your lips just so. Just enough. And her cheeks flare. 

On your way leading her out of the room, a man calls to her before grabbing her by the wrist. He’s an acquaintance, a little too inebriated to realize where you are taking her.

And then you snatch him by the lapels of his jacket and lift him until he’s off the ground. Steve is there in a flash to mediate the situation, catching the scathing comment you hiss.

“You would be welcome to join us, only if you asked. But I do _not _care for bad manners.” 

Then, softly, you set him back down with one arm in an impressive show of control and strength. Twirling a strand of the girl’s hair before pointing her down the hall, you smile, “Be there in a second, pet.”

Steve stands shocked as you turn to regard at him with a knowing glance.

“Why should we deny our bodies the truth?” You grin genuinely-- all teeth, punctuated with a scrunch of your nose, “She wants it, and I’m nothing if not _giving._”

Steve finds himself at a loss for words, because you do look like a gift- winsome, wide smile, thrilled with a bewildering expression of pure joy.

Bucky sidles next to him when you sway down the long trail of the hall, shadows taking you into darkness. He raises an eyebrow and tips the rest of his drink down.

“Good god_damn_.”

He comes upon you hours later loosely wrapped in a silk robe, hair splayed over the back of the auditorium couch while you browse aimlessly through what seems like a million channels. Your eyes are closed, face wiped clean of make-up yet somehow even more refined.

“Mortals can be so exhausting.” You sigh, “Why not enjoy their briefness of your existence? Know it will end for you. Love while you can.”

Steve sits down in a moment of courage and gazes at your profile as your head tilts back, nostrils flaring slightly like you are squashing down some emotion. “What do you love?” He asks quietly.

Your tongue comes out to lick your lips and you roll your head to the side, opening your eyes to look at him. With a swallow, your face resumes its normal façade of indifference.

“Nothing at all.”

Your feet are propped up on the table, left hand clutching the remote, thumb clicking endlessly. He remains planted next to you a little while longer, lets the flashing of channels reflect dully over both your faces.

\--

You are aching.

He watches you a little closer, despite himself. Despite the fact that you don’t need to be watched by anyone. He knows your quiet spaces now, so he comes to you in the field of the forest, by the trickling brook far off where you flick at the surface with your fingers and let fish slip over your hands.

“My world was like this, or maybe it could have been.” You say, “Damp, newly birthed, smelled like trodden earth and torn grass—” a chuckle escapes your mouth as you clench onto a smooth pebble under the water, “stolen from its possibility.”

The stone cracks inside of your fist and crumbles away to wash downstream, sediments depositing along the edges. Your eyes follow its path, marveling at the way the crushed bits add themselves to the banks.

“You asked what I love, Rogers?”

Steve’s heart squeezes inside the chamber of his chest. It hurts him all over to see you splayed out on the pasture, wildflowers leaning over your back as you lie on your stomach, hand dipped in the stream—otherworldly and blinding. To see the tremble of your chin, the hard force of your fingernail burrowing into your thumb, the turning of your face to regard him standing next to you.

“I love what I can never have. What was once so wonderful and what is now nothing at all.”

With a quiet step, he crouches down and sits next to your shoulder, arms folding to rest on his knees. Your eyes trail up his legs to his fingers and finds stillness on the lines of his face, jaw clenched tightly. He becomes lost in the memory of his own possibility, of _his_ something wonderful, now nothing at all.

The world he used to have. He is aching, too.

Under the sunlight scattered by a canopy of leaves, he rests his hand on your bare shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly. You lean your chin on his fingertips and press a kiss to his knuckles.

No, you are not a mystery anymore.

\--

And then there is heat. There is the frame of his bed cracking. Carpet burns on his knees and back. Damp hairs on the nape of your neck. Bruises and bite marks and scratches all over both of you.

When he holds your torso against his, you grip him right back, and the pressure makes him feels like he could snap in half. It is wild and ferocious, tension sparking like a snarling animal ready to pounce.

He doesn’t call you darling or baby or sweetheart because those servile names feel so discourteous to what you actually are. He only pants and grunts and whispers _fuck, fuck, fuck_ like a prayer.

“Don’t hold back on me now, Rogers.” You laugh, licking the sweat dripping down into your mouth. “You’ve always been honest. Go on, tell me what you want.”

He fists your hair from behind, pulls a growl from your throat, tangles his legs between yours as the two of you lie on your sides and goddamn it, he fucks you like he could die tonight. The sound of your ass slapping the smooth plane of his torso rings like a bell through the room. Your fist finds a handful of his hair and wrenches him away. You hold him down and crawl on top with a low chuckle.

“Tell me what you want.”

It’s futile to fight you. You are faster and stronger and beneath you, in the vastness of his own room, you could swallow him whole and he would let it happen.

“I want you.” Steve breathes, raspy and raw, grabbing your shoulders in an attempt to pull you down. You bat him away and lean back instead, propping up on your feet, knees apart, showing him the entirety of your body. Scarred. Gorgeous. Marble smooth. Hard as granite, but flecked with ancient scratches.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat.

You look cold in the way a statue might, but in the center where you are hot and wet, he could devote himself to forever. 

“I want you _now_.”

With a savage grin gracing the transcendent beauty of your face, you allow him this request. Steve Rogers, merely mortal, succumbs entirely to your touch. His body melts into yours, shudders with reverence for your power and gravity, and he feels like he could burst apart inside of you.

Your breath is all he can hear. Your sweat is all he can taste.

You are a goddess.

And he will worship you to the end of his days.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Tall!Reader because long ladies make me SWEAT. Bucky in this is literally just me irl.


End file.
